


A Snippet of a Possible Past of Hamlet and Horatio

by offsammich



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Boarding School, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offsammich/pseuds/offsammich





	A Snippet of a Possible Past of Hamlet and Horatio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laura47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laura47/gifts).



It's not that Horatio particularly _intends_ to break the rules (he's a moral enough chap, he likes to think), but if tutoring Hamlet means he sometimes ends up writing his essays for him, then so be it; it also means he gets to spend a great amount of time in the Prince's overly-lavish chambers.

At first, he'd told himself that the real appeal of these little sessions were the bourbon-filled truffles and petty cash he received in exchange for his services, but it doesn't take him long to notice that Hamlet's straw-blonde hair and sapphire eyes made him feel tipsier than the liquor.

It isn't that Hamlet isn't smart enough to do the work on his own, either, because occasionally the Prince will send him away with a curt rebuke when he knocks on his door at four 'o' clock sharp, just like he does every day. Then Horatio is left with only his own work to complete, and what feels like an enormous amount of extra time to lie restlessly atop his bed, trying in vain to shake thoughts of long tapered fingers and delicate lips that quirk up into an ironic smile.

No, it isn't that Hamlet isn't smart enough to do the work on his own. What Horatio thinks more and more, as the term progresses, is that he's company.

And it's not that he minds performing the obviously unnecessary services for the Prince under the guise of earning aforementioned petty cash, he needs the money, and the work is never too much. No, what Horatio minds is the way Hamlet seems to have completely taken over his brain, the way he saunters in and out of Horatio's thoughts practically every waking minute. Which, again, he wouldn't mind quite so much if he weren't having trouble sleeping.

Halfway through the term, and Horatio is starting to look a little like a zombie. The circles under his eyes are dark enough that even Hamlet takes notice, leaning across the table they're working at to cup a hand under his tutor's chin and lift his face for inspection.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks, managing to sound both sardonic and nonchalant in that way that makes Horatio feel very small indeed.

"No-nothing," he manages to stutter.

"You look like you haven't slept in weeks," Hamlet tells him, "What's the matter?"

Months, in fact. "You know. Work," says Horatio, "Exams soon," and shrugs, like this is no big deal. "I'm fine."

Hamlet doesn't seem to believe him, and maybe he cares more than he lets on, because he drops Horatio's chin and tells him to leave, he'll finish the essay on his own.

It is really very nice of him, Horatio thinks, as he gathers up his things and heads back to his own room. Nice, but completely unhelpful. The touch on his chin alone is probably enough to keep him up half the night.

He wonders how to tell Hamlet that it's not work that keeps him from sleeping, but frequent and highly inconvenient hard-ons that force him to stay awake until sometimes the wee hours of the morning. He decides against it.

Once, Horatio knocks on Hamlet's door, only to find the Prince slumped over, half-empty bottle of cognac on the table next to him. He lifts his head wearily and squints at Horatio across the distance, then nods at him to sit.  Horatio does so silently, waiting for further instructions, but Hamlet only pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained.

Finally, Horatio can stand the silence no longer. He takes a breath to ask what work Hamlet has for him to do tonight, but just as he opens his mouth Hamlet bursts out into speech that is only slightly slurred.

"Letter from my father today," he mumbles, "Apparently we're now at war with Norway."

His father, the King. "Oh," says Horatio, trying to comprehend. Hamlet takes no notice.

"Anyway," he continues, "I guess that means my engagement to the Duchess of Oslo is off now. Dozy cow." Horatio gives him a weak smile, not quite sure what to make of all this. Hamlet tries a smile, but doesn't quite make it. "Do you know what it's like to have every aspect of your entire life governed by politics?" he asks, quite unnecessarily, as Horatio obviously doesn't, "It blows."

He puts his head down again. Horatio doesn't quite know what to do. The Prince's hair is tousled, and his fingers itch to smooth it. Instead, he slaps his hand down on the wood of the table, and Hamlet sits up abruptly, startled.

Horatio realizes he should say something, so he does. "Fuck 'em," he says, rather weakly.

There is a moment of silence, which, to Horatio, seems to drag on forever. Then Hamlet bursts into laughter, head thrown back, hands clutching at the table.

Horatio tries to tell himself it's the possibility that he just committed minor treason rather than the sight of the Prince displaying such unabashed pleasure that is making his heart pound.

 

Things change after that. Hamlet rarely asks Horatio to do any of his work anymore, but he doesn't send him away, either. They sit together for hours, talking, occasionally drinking. It's almost as it they're friends.

Horatio almost never sleeps now. His marks are starting to suffer, but he can't bring himself to care. He is happy with the way things are.

 

Then exams come and go, and things change again.

 

Horatio bursts into Hamlet's room not ten minutes after visiting the post office, panting, eyes gleaming. Hamlet has been to the post as well, and is sitting amidst a pile of boxes and envelopes. He hardly bats an eye at Horatio's dramatic entrance, but Horatio doesn't mind. He feels his chest is about to burst.

"Highest marks!" he cries, waving his letter in Hamlet's face. "Highest marks!"

Hamlet blinks at him, and then his face splits into a stupid grin, and he snatches the paper away from Horatio and bends over it intently. "Hm," he says, thoughtfully, but with a note of restrained merriment in his voice, "Not bad, sir, not bad at all."

He stands, brushes off the lapels of his jacket, and holds out an official hand, which Horatio takes with equal solemnity. And then squawks when Hamlet pulls him into a bruising hug and his face is smashed into Hamlet's shoulder and Hamlet's hand is ruffling his hair like he's a five year old. He let's himself laugh and breathe in the Prince's scent for an indulgent second or two before shoving him off and attempting to flatten his hair. Hamlet smirks at him, and drops back into his chair. He carefully folds Horatio's letter, and slides it back across the table to him.

"Where's yours?" says Horatio, suddenly struck by an uncomfortable thought.

The grin drops off Hamlet's face so fast Horatio almost forgets it was ever there. He is still for a moment, and then reaches to pull a sheet of paper out from under a pile of others on his desk and holds it in his hands, face impossible to read.

Horatio's chest seizes.

"Hamlet," he says slowly, but before he can finish the thought, Hamlet shoves the paper at him.

He takes it, hands shaking, and unfolds it slowly.

Hamlet shoves his chair back from the table and goes to look out the window.

Horatio puts the letter back down on the table with a slight bang, and Hamlet looks back at him, eyebrows raised, as if to say, "Well?"

"I hate you," Horatio tells him, and Hamlet arches one of his eyebrows (how long did he spend in front of his mirror practicing that? Horatio wonders. He himself is not so skilled at keeping his face in line, because a shit-eating grin spreads across it now). "You absolute git, you got as good marks as I did!"

Hamlet is grinning now too, and he pushes himself away from the window in a way that makes Horatio think of a cat. "I had you going, though, didn't I?" he teases.

"I hate you," Horatio reiterates.

Hamlet pulls a bottle out of a box on his desk, and waves it in front of Horatio's nose. "Not after you've had some of this," he says, "We should celebrate."

Horatio takes the bottle from him and unstoppers it, cautiously sniffing. "What is it?"

"Port," says Hamlet definitively as he fetches a pair of glasses from a cupboard. "At least, I think so. It came in the mail today. From Father, I assume. Good man."

His father, the king. Good man. Horatio's mind boggles. "Good man," he agrees.

Hamlet's fingers curl around his for a moment when he takes the bottle and the bottom falls out of Horatio's stomach. Their eyes meet and Horatio is positive that something electric flashes out at him from amidst all that blue, but then Hamlet is taking the bottle and pouring them each a generous amount and he downs his immediately, if only to settle his nerves. A millisecond later he almost regrets it, as the stuff burns down his throat, making his eyes water (stomach acid has _nothing_ on this stuff, he thinks, as his intestines twist painfully).

When he recovers, Hamlet is smirking at him. "Too strong?" he asks mockingly, a challenge. His eyes spark again, and Horatio thinks _fuck, but this could lead somewhere wonderful_, so he holds out his glass and gasps, "More."

 

Six glasses of the stuff later, and Horatio is waltzing around Hamlet's room with an invisible partner. Hamlet is watching, amused, from his spot at the table.

"You dance so gracefully, my Lady, the Queen of Bavaria," Horatio informs his partner, and Hamlet snorts.

"The Queen of Bavaria is about seven feet tall, Horatio," he informs him dryly. Horatio sticks out his tongue, and adjusts his invisible grip to suit someone much taller. Hamlet laughs again, "I never really pegged you for a dancer. I'm impressed by your ability to... remain upright."

"I'm a very upright young gentleman."

"A veritable prince." 

Horatio grins to himself, and twirls his invisible partner in what he hopes is an elegant fashion.

It isn't. His foot catches on the edge of the rug, and in a terrifying second he sees the floor rushing at him, and closes his eyes against the impact.

But it doesn't come. Strong arms clamp around his middle before he hits the ground and Horatio let's out a surprised, "Oh!--" and clutches at Hamlet, surprisingly agile, even in this state of drunkenness.

"Are you okay?" Hamlet asks, looking faintly amused. His face is mere inches from Horatio's, so close that his breath tickles Horatio's cheek.

"Oh," says Horatio again.

And now Hamlet doesn't look amused anymore, either. He carefully leans Horatio against the table. "There," he says, "You upstanding gentleman, you," but doesn't move away.

Horatio stands perfectly still, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over the Prince's left shoulder. He swallows. He thinks perhaps he has died.

 

There is a knock on the door.

 

Horatio startles, and looks up, finally, to meet Hamlet's eyes. Hamlet bites his lip and grins. "Maybe they'll go away," he whispers, and the tension is broken. Horatio giggles, and presses his forehead to Hamlet's.

"Maybe."

But there is another knock, and with a groan, Hamlet pushes himself away from Horatio and goes to open the door. Horatio's legs tremble slightly now Hamlet is not holding him up anymore, but he turns to look all the same.

Hamlet's body blocks most of the door, but he sees someone standing outside, and hears a gruff voice which says, "Urgent letter for you, my lord," and hears Hamlet say, "Oh, very well," and watches Hamlet break the seal.

 

Hamlet gives him the letter to read, afterwards, hands shaking as he passes it over. The bottom drops out of Horatio's stomach again as he reads: _...sleeping in his orchard... your uncle to take the throne, your mother's hand in marriage... _

His father, the king, is dead. Horatio's heart swells to breaking for Hamlet, who, somewhat to his surprise, does not cry, but sits, eyes fixed on some distant point of light miles away, and says nothing.

Horatio can't think of anything to say either. He lays an unsure hand on the Prince's shoulder, and when Hamlet leans slightly into the touch, he draws him into his side, kisses his temple.

With the whole country in political uproar, now, Hamlet will get very little peace for the next few months, he knows. Horatio decides to say nothing, holding his Prince through the silence. 


End file.
